Off the Hook Too! E-Book

Nancy Besonen

• Herausgeber: Modern History Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 290

Beschreibung

In 1981, L'Anse Sentinel publisher Ed Danner unleashed the madness when he invited a rookie reporter from Chicago's South Side to work for his Upper Michigan weekly newspaper. Nancy Besonen's Off The Hook is a collection of humor columns she successfully slipped by her editor over a 30-year reporting career. However, there were still a few very silly things left unsaid. Her second and final installment, Off the Hook Too!, keeps the laughter alive and rounds out what she likes to call "The Compleat Works of Nancy Besonen." (take that, William Shakespeare!)
"Nancy Besonen's weekly columns in the L'Anse Sentinel always made me smile, or chuckle and, quite often, even snort with mirth. Besonen connects so well with our quirky Yooper culture and its priorities. Her perspective of our everyday lives is hilarious and reminiscent of the late Erma Bombeck."
-- Terri Martin, author and U.P. Notable Book Award recipient
"It takes a special person to write a weekly column year after year and decade after decade. There have to be times when life is not funny, you're just not in the mood to be humorous, or you simply can't think of a damn thing to satirize, or poke fun at. So, hats off to Nancy Besonen because judging by this collection of her weekly columns in the L'Anse Sentinel she has a genuine talent for finding humor in everyday life.
--Tom Powers, Michigan in Books
"Besonen has written a book that reads like standup comedy, a'la 'up-north' humor. If you have only heard of Northern Michigan or are an actual resident (Yooper) you will find the clever writing in this book to be enjoyable. Short chapters make reading easy on the days there isn't much time to read. The entire book does not have to be finished to find out whodunnit, although it's still difficult to put down."
--Carolyn Wilhelm, Midwest Book Review
"Besonen, a gifted journalist who moved north from Chicago for the fishing and brought with her a deep sensibility for the U.P, both teaches and inspires. This is true nonfiction at its best, both wit and investigative journalism. I am glad she collects it here."
--Mack Hassler, former professor of English, Kent State University for U.P. Book Review
From Modern History Press

Leseprobe

Off the Hook Too!: Off-Beat Reporter’s Tales from Michigan’s U.P.

Copyright © 2024 by Nancy Besonen. All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-61599-825-8 paperback

ISBN 978-1-61599-826-5 hardcover

ISBN 978-1-61599-827-2 eBook

Modern History Press

[email protected]

5145 Pontiac Trail

www.ModernHistoryPress.com

Ann Arbor, MI 48105

Tollfree 888-761-6268

Distributed by INGRAM Book Group (USA/CAN/EU/AU)

Thank you, God, for everything

Edith Rutter-Leatham

also, Mrs. Haberichter’s kindergarten class

before our milk & cookies

Contents

1. WE THE PEOPLE

DATELINE: D.C. & DeKalb

Wonder Woman vs. HB

A Hit for Everyman

Above Average Inauguration

2. PET PEEVES

It’s a Jungle in Here

Dogs Show Me Up

“Blackie” Rises Again

3. MIXED BAG

Asteroid Alert

Hacker Shares Helpful Hints

Pinata Down!

Pronunciation Primer

Calling Mr. President

Prone From Accidents

4. WILD THINGS

Crop Adjuster Breaches Security

Hooked on Hunting

’Twas the Second Week of Deer Camp

Deer With a Difference

Talking Turkey

5. REEL ME IN

Digging Up Bones

Write a Winning Fish Tale

Is Trout Worship Wrong?

Fish Camp Goes Co-ed

Fresh Spin on Fish Camping

6. AT OUR SERVICE

Dad has Shuttle Seniority

In a Military State

Living the Dream

Bringing Home World War II

7. PURSUIT OF FRUIT

Pails in Comparison

Berry Picker Blues

How We Like Them Apples

8. THINGS OF BEAUTY

Capris Here—Run for Cover!

Oscars Out of Fashion

Mr. Rogers Rocked It

“Alien Stompers” All the Rage

9. MUSIC TO MY EARS

Campbell Strikes a Chord

We Want Another Rock?

Disco Drops the Ball

10. FUN WITH FADS

Barbie Gets Her Grooves On

Swedes Make a Clean Sweep

Real Fake News

Guerilla Artist Crosses Lines

Spa Bathrooms Waste Space

Weather Poodle Alert

From Mouths of Babes

11. DEALING WITH WHEELING

Road Gators Bite

Caroling Car on a Roll

“Dusty Rose” Hits the Trail

Where’s the Grease?

Dirty Driving

Ready, Set, Mow!

12. FEAR IS WHY WE’RE HERE

My Computer is Dying!

Revenge of the Refrigerator

Cobras Can’t Touch Us

Reporters are Replaceable

Data Thief Disappointment

Fear is our Friend

13. PUTTING THE MISS IN CHRISTMAS

Just Use Money!

Testing, Testing

Christmas is for Crafters

Checkers, Anyone?

Three Kings Rule

It’s Another Perfect Tree

14. WHAT’S BUGGING US

Nowhere to Hide

Bees Do It

The Third Plague

We’re the Most Invasive

15. Food for Aught

Weighing In on Lists

Beer’s Getting Winey

Flying High on Chocolate

Mutiny From our Bounty

Shame on Turkeys

16. FAMILY MATTERS

Speaking of Dad

Working, With Children

Focus on Photography

Family Banking Doesn’t Pay

Tot Translator

NEW Grandmothers Rock & Roll

No Escaping Sunday School

17. OLDER, NO WISER

Getting Gamey

Gripers Go Pro

Lifetime Loser

Do You Wah Diddy?

The Future is Calling

18. LAST WORDS

War of the Words

Lassie, Come Back!

Live Guilt-Free

Canada Makes Change

Fun With Forecasting

Fisherman’s Guide to Foul Weather

I’m Not THAT Shopper

About the Author

1. WE THE PEOPLE

DATELINE: D.C. & DeKalb

DATELINE: D.C.--I heard such a funny news story last week, I had to commit it to memory. Unfortunately, it was my memory, a sieve that couldn’t hold the Eastern Seaboard, but I vaguely recall the gist.

It was about our Nation’s Capital, and how it was shut down for four days due to the blizzard raging in Washington, D.C. Lawmakers got those days off, which cost the country millions of dollars in lost business--just slightly less than it would have cost if they could have gotten into their offices and conducted business as usual.

But that was not the funny part. The funny part was when the newsman said, “Essential staff are still required to come in.” He was not talking about the president, senators, representatives, elephants, donkeys, etc. that make up our fair democracy. He was talking about the janitors.

As a proud American who used to clean the multi-purpose building in Covington, which houses a gym, kitchen, dining area, office and bathrooms, I would like to take this opportunity to announce: No Street Shoes in the Gym!

Thank you. That has been building up inside of me for a long time, ever since our three kids were little enough to come with me and play “Hop the Mop.” They’d stand in a row on the gym’s center line while I came tearing across the floor at them, pushing a three-foot-wide dust mop aimed right at their feet.

At the very last minute, they’d hop the mop. Sometimes, playing upon their innocence and my superior cunning, I’d do a little hesitation step and knock them all down like bowling pins. I so miss having little ones about. Can’t wait for grandkids!

As I was typing, even though outside conditions were not suitable for man nor beast nor lawmakers, essential staff still had to report for duty last week. While the Wheels of Justice spun in the snow, they kept the Capital running like clockwork: shoveling, firing the stoves, and mopping up imaginary strikes starring our Supreme Court justices.

Or did they?

For four stormy days, essential staff ruled. I am not typing that they actually ran our country during that period. I am typing that I would have liked to see them try. As they say in the business, “One hand washes the other, and both hands scrub the Floor.”

Essential staff would put up a unified front, because they know if you don’t take care of business by the end of the day, people will be tripping over their trash. If essential staffers indulged in partisanship, they might have constituents, but they wouldn’t have any customers.

The implications would be staggering: the keys to the free world in the hands of the common man! World peace was surely within our grasp, along with sensible spending and having to kick your shoes off before coming into the House.

Then the storm in Washington passed, and non-essential staff were all called back to work.

DATELINE: DeKALB--The Washington snow scoop was still making newsmen swoon when another big story broke, this one much closer to home. An earthquake caused our very own Midwest to shudder. My brother, Mark, was there. This headline was mine!

It happened last Wednesday, and the quake’s epicenter was in Kane County, IL. Depending upon your news source, it registered anywhere from a 3.8 to a 4.3. It rattled the corn cobs right in their husks--a few kernels may have even popped--and was felt as far away as Chicago.

Mark, a retired Army major who lives perilously close to the source in DeKalb, IL, said it was no great shakes.

“Yeah, we used to have earthquakes bigger than that every day in Alaska,” Mark said in a live telephone interview, displaying no regard whatsoever for my career aspirations. “It didn’t even wake me up.”

“Work with me, man,” I begged. “Any casualties in the neighborhood? Cracks in the foundation? Pictures hanging crooked in the hallway? DID THE DOG MESS THE RUG?”

“Nope. You talk to Ma lately? How’s she doin’?”

What does Mark know about tremors? He drinks more coffee than I do. We register better than a 3.8 before our first cup of the day. An earthquake would just make us think we’re sitting still for a change.

The national news reporters didn’t seem to fare much better. Maybe they talked to Mark, too, because the Snow Scoop in Washington totally upstaged the Tragedy in the Heartland. That’s what I’m calling it, just for practice, because someday my boat is bound to come in.

When it does, I’ve got just the mop for cleaning up in its aftermath. Watch your feet.

Wonder Woman vs. HB

If you feel empowered by Wonder Woman, cross your wrists in front of you and prepare to deflect bullets, because I am about to take some cheap shots.

I can’t help myself. I feel empowered, too.

Wonder Woman is the newest marvel to leap straight out of comic books and onto the big screen. She is the daughter of Zeus, king of the gods, and Queen Hippolyta, an Amazon warrior who has superpowers and a wardrobe that is a tad scanty.

Wonder Woman also sports some serious accessories, including bullet-proof cuffs and a magic lasso. And last weekend she used all of the above, but mostly her wardrobe, to “break the glass ceiling” for women directors by breaking box office records.

I know all about glass ceilings. I learned about them from the Sokero brothers of Finland, who were visiting family in the U.P. They also visited Shute’s Bar in Calumet, which boasts an historic stained-glass canopy which I intend to toast, for history’s sake of course, the very next time we are in town.

But I would never dream of breaking the ceiling at Shute’s, because I am not a much-oppressed female director. I am not even an oppressed female reporter. I get to cover both sports and news. And I can even write about Wonder Woman after I get my real work done.

That is because Wonder Woman is making big news these days by empowering women. We finally have an action figure we can look up to, though I personally find Robert Downey Jr. even more fetching as Iron Man. Hear us roar!

According to popular media, wherever there are movie screens, women are taking their daughters to see Wonder Woman. Women are renting theaters for “girls only” screenings. And women are already planning a Wonder Woman sequel, hopefully co-starring Robert Downey Jr. as Iron Man.

I am a bit reluctant to take my daughters to a movie about a woman who doesn’t duck bullets and is banned from Schute’s Bar for what she’s doing to glass ceilings. That is why they will be joining me this week for a limited run at Fish Camp in Mercer, WI.

Nobody is oppressed at Fish Camp, not even the fish. Everyone dresses sensibly, in clothes we seldom bother changing unless we are headed to town. Then we dress better above the watering line, which would be the bar at the Northwoods Bar.

We are all Wonder Women (and men) at Fish Camp! We wonder where the fish are. We wonder how to turn off the fire alarm when we are cooking in the cabin. We wonder why the White Sox are losing and the Cubs aren’t, because we all hail from Chicago’s South Side.

And my daughters will wonder, too, at my spinners that deflect fish, my magical fishing rod that separates in the middle when I make a long cast, and my aluminum beer koozie of doom engraved with the mysterious letters, “HB.” Because some wonders, like my hard-earned Fish Camp nickname, are best kept that way.

A Hit for Everyman

They were coming into town from out of state, out of country and in some cases, totally out of character to help America pick up the pieces of its lost national pastime.

And do you know what the headlines announced when they arrived?

“Welcome, imposters!”

I slapped my car horn in disgust when I heard the report on Minnesota Public Radio, causing an oncoming driver to smile, wave, and watch for hidden police cars over the next few miles. Talk about your misguided, bullheaded ingrates. Foul ball, I say!

Pro baseball players had gone on strike, protesting a proposed salary cap, and some club managers were striking back, calling up second, third and never-even-been-on-the-stringers to try to salvage the major league baseball season.

Players were also being harvested from amateur leagues, foreign teams and some sagging floral couches to which they thought they had successfully retired: “Yer’ re-hired! Play ball!”

The season-saving strategy had thrown many fans into a real snit. They enjoy a steady diet of watching the pros play ball. Although it’s proving an increasingly too rich diet for the fans, who have to eat but mostly drink in the parking lot before the game, they’re not willing to change it.

Speaking from that neutral zone called the U.P., where the nearest major league ballpark is located downstate, which is technically out-of-state, I don’t really care. I lost my interest in baseball after I grew too old to play it in Chicago’s Marquette Park.

The crowd is riveted by the action as Dad scores a hit for everyman (on his team) in kickball

However, if some adult who hasn’t outgrown it suddenly picks up a bat and decides he wants to hit a ball with it, I for one am not going to stand in his way. And if we have to have heroes, then maybe it’s high time we had some we can relate to.

Imagine somebody you could beat in a foot race ambling up to the plate, assuming an unthreatening batting stance, and then accidentally popping the ball over the outfielders’ heads. It’s a hit for everyman! The crowd goes wild!

After landing safe on first and catching his breath, the player accepts his thanks with a humble nod and a hint of a grin. He does not spit. He wouldn’t know where to scratch. I think he’s Gary Cooper in that old Lou Gehrig movie.

On the darker side, consider the real reason most of us tune into professional sports. Are we interested in seeing a football soar between two goal posts? Do we stare at the finish line to see which car will cross it first? Are we gentle-natured, caring, and basically humane? I think not!

It’s not the “Hooray’s!” but the “Oh, noooo’s!” that nourish our baser selves, and just think of the feast a roster full of amateurs could serve up. Yes, it is good to see a play of the week, but it is far better to see a blooper, even though the player is making more while screwing up than we are by doing our jobs right.

Tune into the evening news, and you’ll find that immediately following the game highlights, there is sometimes an even longer replay of spectacular blunders. Outstanding interceptions and slam dunks are things of beauty, but for pure entertainment, you can’t beat a scapegoat. Trust me, I know.

Two years ago, I was treading on thin ice on Keweenaw Bay, looking for an angler to interview, when I met a former Green Bay Packer. I got the big story--the fish were biting!--then later, called the Football Hall of Fame in Green Bay, WI for a few sentences about his playing career.

I found I’d hooked a whopper.

The man at the museum recounted Chester Marcol’s long and glowing career, including a history-making play by the former place kicker. In the 1980 season opener, in overtime vs. the Chicago Bears, Marcol scored the winning touchdown when he caught his own blocked field goal kick and ran it into the end zone.

It was an “Oh, noooo!” and a “Hooray!”, all in the same play. As for Marcol, he cared more about the fishing. He was a pro a person could look up to--that is, when he wasn’t hunkered down, fishing through his hole in the ice.

And we could look up to our amateurs, too, those unlikely boys of summer ready and willing to come up to the plate. Given a shot, they’d thrill us with their occasional triumphs and reassure us with the rest, because a swing and a miss in the bigs is still a hit for everyman.

Above Average Inauguration

NASHVILLE, TN, Jan. 2020—Sarah Fuller, the first woman to score in a Power Five conference football game, says she’s been invited to attend President-elect Joe Biden’s inauguration on Wednesday.

From the preceding AP news brief, we may conclude that:

1.Sarah Fuller sure can kick.

2.Sarah Fuller has broken an important barrier, allowing girls everywhere to someday realize their dream of attending a presidential inauguration.

3.Invitation-wise, it’s not looking good for the rest of us.

While it’s probably not the worst capital offense committed in Washington this past week, we still feel the sting from being left out. The reason for the unfortunate oversight is, the rest of us are just your average Americans.

We touch all the bases—work, pay bills, carpool, remove stains—without ever hearing the roar of the crowd. The only recognition we receive is a head-butt from the cat, and we have to pop a can of the good stuff to score it.

Later that night, he will gak it up on the living room rug because our cat is average, too, and can’t stomach a rich diet. Which is quite possibly why cats didn’t make the cut either for invitations to President-elect Joe Biden’s inauguration.

The irony of the situation is, cats don’t particularly care. Also, average Americans are the people who made the inauguration possible, standing in long lines for an above-average amount of time to elect the President-elect.

So, if We the Average People can’t attend the presidential inauguration, then who can?

As a highly trained watchdog for the public (I have a journalism degree!), I made it my personal priority to track down the list of who scored a ticket to the inauguration. My strategy consisted of typing progressively sterner commands into my computer until it finally spat it out, just like the cat.

Here’s what I got: Due to the pandemic, this year’s invitation list has been whittled down, from the usual 200,000 guests to just 1,500. Members of Congress can bring one friend each. Sarah can come. So can Joe and Kamala. Mike is a yes. Donald is a no.

Beyond that, I got nothin’.

The good news is, the event will be televised, and everyone is created equal in the eyes of TV advertisers, as long as we’ve paid our cable/dish/satellite/electric bill. We all have front row seats to the gala, which will feature above-average performers, politicians included.

Lady Gaga will sing the Star-Spangled Banner. Jennifer Lopez will perform some of her greatest hits. Bruce Springsteen, Jon Bon Jovi and Justin Timberlake are all on the program, too, hosted by actor Tom Hanks.

If you look really hard and can see past all the hoopla, you might even spot Sarah Fuller in the audience, kicking back and enjoying the show.

2. PET PEEVES

It’s a Jungle in Here

It’s 8 a.m., and Franklin wants out of the office place. Franklin expresses his dissatisfaction by leaping up onto my desk to dolefully gaze out the window at Bob, who wants back into the office place.

Franklin is one bad cat. Bob is the other one.

I cannot work under these conditions, which is obvious by the work that I do. Yet every day I am forced to share my office with a bunch of animals that are not my co-workers at the newspaper. This, my friends, is why our future is doomed.

I read all about it in Time magazine awhile back because my sister-in-law got a free subscription and figures I need more input. Though Time is seriously lacking in its junior high sports and senior cribbage scores coverage, it really shines at hard news, like The Future of Working.

According to my input, work as we know it will not exist in the future. We’ll zip out to the office with jet packs strapped to our backs, push buttons all day and then return home exhausted to our boy, Elroy and slobbery dog, Astro.

Wait! That’s The Jetsons, a futuristic cartoon from our past. Instead of jet packs, we’ll have home offices. We’ll barely have to budge to go to work. Our rear ends will be the size of Volkswagens, but work will be more flexible, freelance, and collaborative. Our 40-hour work week could even be whittled down to 30.

(So might our pay. That’s why we’ll have to freelance, collaborating with our teenage co-worker at McDonald’s who wants extra shifts to pay for prom).

Women will be “increasingly at the controls,” and we’re not talking the driver’s seat in the kids’ car pool. That’s right! Instead of just doing all the work outright, we’ll be assigning it to ourselves first, then chewing ourselves out if we didn’t get it done as soon as we said we should.

Franklin enjoys his favorite nature show; the fish, a little less

The series of articles on the future of working failed to take just one little detail into account. We are a nation of pet lovers. Our pets share our work places. The future of working is doomed.

Thanks to my exciting and rewarding career as a part-time newspaper reporter, I have enjoyed a sneak preview of the future Time so boldly predicts. Grab a hankie, and pull up a seat.

It is 5 a.m. and my boss, Bob, calls me in early to let her and Franklin out. As I pass Molly’s cage on my way in to the office, the guinea pig chirps loudly for her lettuce. I stop at the ’fridge to pinch off a leaf, then tickle her belly as she stretches up to haul it into her cage.

I know it’s sexual harassment, but she can’t reach the phone to contact Legal.

I fill the two cat dishes and greet Callie, Employee of Every Month because the dog is the only one in the office who has any manners, me included. Then Bob scratches to get back in, where she buries her head in her food bowl. Franklin stays outside, dawdling as usual in the men’s room.

I grab a coffee and head for my office. Six sentences into my workday, Franklin starts pawing at my window to get back in. He bounces from my chair to the floor, leaving snowy footprints on my seat, size XL because he has extra toes. Distracted by the traffic, I sit in the snow on my chair.

The time clock hasn’t registered a full hour before Franklin starts an argument with Bob over who gets the best cubicle (spot in the sun). The fur flies. Callie hides under the coffee table. I leave my job to mediate with a well-aimed slipper.

Detecting movement in the room, Molly chirps for more lettuce. Franklin finally settles into his work routine, a cat nap on the couch, while Bob, clearly management, lies on her back on the kitchen floor and meows if another employee comes too close. Callie sighs at my knee.

What was I writing in the first place?

I hope this explains some of the work that I do, and I’m sorry it came in a little late. Franklin clipped my keyboard on his way in this morning, and then I was involved in a personal injury accident--stepped on Bob’s tail in the hallway.

Welcome to the future of working. It’s a jungle in here.

Dogs Show Me Up

If you are a lover of all things dog, there was no better place to be awhile back than the Marquette Kennel Club’s Annual Dog Show in Marquette.

From an easygoing Irish Wolfhound that fairly filled his pen to a little Chinese Crested that seriously needs a new look, the dogs went all out to entertain. And their owners didn’t do too shabbily, either.

I hadn’t been to a dog show since my college days, when I snapped off a quick assignment for Photography 101. Then I was unjustly downgraded for obviously missing the mark: the people in my photos looked just like their dogs.

A long-faced woman was pictured grooming her collie. A lady with a tight perm accessorized with her toy poodle, and a man who clearly had a rap sheet a mile long was captured on film, trotting his Bullmastiff around the ring.

Pardon me for being judgy. I learned it in Photography 101.

Years later, I am happy to report that dog shows are just as much fun and even less stressful, because I don’t get graded anymore. I had a fine time at the show, snapped a few photos just to prove I still can, and came home with an even greater appreciation for dog owners of all breeds.

I went because two friends, Dennis and Diane, are club members and were working at the event. Two other friends, Mack and Sue, also like dogs and wanted to see Dennis and Diane in action. It cost just $4 per carload, and Mack was popping for lunch. I love dogs, my friends, and free meals!

The Marquette County Fairgrounds were filled with RV’s, dog paraphernalia and plenty of people, too. We zeroed right in on Dennis, who was sporting a very natty suit and checking-in registrants. We complimented him on being well groomed. I think he growled at us.

So, we turned our attention instead to the stars of the show, in all shapes and sizes with matching owners. I admired the fact that the dogs had better hair than me, except for the Chinese Crested, and I admired their owners even more because they so obviously loved their breeds.

We visited with a woman showing her 9-year-old Hungarian Puli. The sheep herding breed originated over a thousand years ago, and has a heavy coat that hangs just like dreadlocks. Hers was the only Puli in the show that weekend. She was anticipating a strong finish.

Then there was the Keeshond lady. Her dog’s name is Jack Daniels, and he’s a class act, just like the whiskey. She said he’s like her child, only better, because he behaves both in and out of the ring. She even had a story to prove it.

She and Jack were checking into a hotel one day, when she was told there would be an added fee for her dog. A family behind them included several children who had obviously flunked obedience training. She asked the manager if they had to pay more for their kids. Of course not!

So, she cut a deal. Both she and the family were checking-in for the weekend. At check-out, if Housekeeping found the family’s room was cleaner, she’d gladly pay extra for her dog. If her room was cleaner, Jack Daniels would get a free ride.

Two days later, the hotel manager glumly admitted, “I owe ya’ some money.”

We traveled the Fairgrounds, meeting and admiring the best of breeds and people. We saw Diane in action, too, as she directed traffic in a show ring. When we complimented her on her nice outfit, she just smiled.

I wanted a hot dog at the show because that would be so ironic, but Mack made me sit and eat in town. If you get a chance next year, try to catch the show! Just don’t cut any lodging deals involving a Keeshond named Jack Daniels, especially if the kiddies are acting up.

“Blackie” Rises Again

A very sad thing happened in Wausau, WI on Good Friday. A fish died.

I got the call the next day. Mom had a catch in her voice, and was hesitant to break the news to me over the phone. As an ace reporter (nagging daughter), I finally dragged it out of her.

“I couldn’t tell you yesterday, because I was too upset,” Mom said. “Blackie died.”

For the record, it is not uncommon for fish to die on Fridays in Wisconsin. There are a lot of Catholics in the Badger State, and their rule book calls for meatless Fridays during Lent, which spans the 40 days preceding Easter.

Blessedly, many parishes rise to the call for sacrifice with delicious fish fries that pad both church coffers and their parishioners. Just recently, a Wausau woman bragged to me that, “Red Lobster is afraid to come in, because they can’t compete with our parish fish fries!”

But we are not talking about any old walleye, perch or baked cod with a side of slaw and French fries. We are talking about the cherished pet that peered through its glass bowl on Mom’s kitchen table and regularly witnessed her slaughtering me at Rummikub and Scrabble.

I knew Blackie was judging me. I could read it in his bubbles.

When Mom fed Blackie a pinch of food each day, she tapped his bowl first, then marveled at how he surfaced to eat. Actually, her tap created a small tsunami in Blackie’s one-liter kingdom, and he was just riding out the waves. (By the way, “tsunami” is a seven-letter word. Fifty Scrabble points for Nancy!).

If I appear somewhat inured to my mother’s grief, allow me to explain. Back when I was about eight years old, Mom didn’t come clean with me about Goldie.

Goldie was one of a school of goldfish that took turns occupying the filmy fish bowl in our living room. Previous occupants included Goldie, Goldie and the unforgettable Goldie. One day I came home from school and noticed the current Goldie was missing. Mom was ready with the perfect alibi.

“She got one of those little blue stones caught in her throat, and we took her to the vet,” said Mom, who just didn’t have the energy that day to deal with third grade grief. “She’s recovering.”

“Nu-uh!” I cried. “She’s dead, and you’re just saying that!”

“No, she’s not,” Mom calmly replied. “The operation was a success, and the vet is keeping her until her throat feels better.”

Well, now it made sense. Three days later, when Mom needed something from the dime store, Goldie was released from the hospital with a clean bill of health. The procedure must have been rough, though, because she came home with bigger eyes, a nicked tail, and a couple black spots--probably from the shots.

I shared the memory with Mom in an effort to ease her grief, and she of course denied it. A few days later, brother Mark offered his shabby condolences by asking if she had frozen Blackie’s remains, and if so, was there any beer batter in the house?

Brothers can be so callous, which also has seven letters--another 50 Scrabble points for Nancy!

If I appear as callous as Mark, it is simply because while our mom works to sustain fish life, for the past two months I have dedicated my days to killing as many fish as I can. I do it with an ice auger, a hand line, fishing buddies Barry Drue or Tom Kruse and of course, my official Michigan DNR fishing license.

The killing spree begins with tip-ups on inland lakes. Then Keweenaw Bay freezes over, and it’s time to move out onto Lake Superior. We drill two windows of opportunity through the ice, and I try to lure fish in with my “Jig Dance of Death.” And do you know where all that murderous activity gets me?

If Blackie had truly wanted to live, he’d have ridden that tsunami right across state lines into Keweenaw Bay. We’ve put a small dent in the local lake trout population, but the fish aren’t dying to take my bait. I can only assume they all have small stones lodged in their throats.

I offered up that story as a comfort to my mom, but she wasn’t taking the bait, either. I blame Mark. But Mom’s dear neighbor and traveling companion, Lee, knew just what to do in Mom’s time of need.

She went to the vet and brought the patient home.

On a recent visit to Wausau, I was happy to find the fish bowl was back on the kitchen table and fully loaded. Lee had left Mom a note, “Hope you like your new fish!”, and another Blackie that was now ogling me from inside his new surroundings, clearly bubbling, “Loser!”

Mom is in love again. Mark is still on probation. I’m going fishing at St. Michael’s this Friday.

3. MIXED BAG

Asteroid Alert

If you are like me, it’s a secret you’ll want to keep. Also, you were mightily relieved to learn last week that 30 years from now, Asteroid 1997 XF11 is not going to drop out of the sky and bonk us on our heads.

The startling announcement was made scarcely 24 hours after the International Astronomical Union informed us that on Oct. 26, 2028, you wouldn’t want to look up. However, both the content and source of this short-lived foreboding raised some important questions that still bear addressing, such as:

1.What kind of options do you get with an Asteroid 1997 XF11, and

2.Do you think the Astronomical Union holds its annual company picnic in the dark?

It’s easy for us to be flippant about this moot issue, and I can’t get the image of Chicken Little out of my head, though I wouldn’t dream of burdening anyone else with it (he’s cute and yellow and slightly daft). But what was it all about, and are we truly safe from that great big apple, I mean asteroid, in the sky?

According to my source, which is unfortunately datelined “Washington” and therefore loses some major credibility, the asteroid was first spotted by the University of Arizona Spacewatch program, and became asteroid no. 169 on its list of “potentially hazardous objects.”

I liked that. To a mother, hazardous objects are hot dogs not cut into small pieces, and the scissors you’re running with. Astronomers get the bigger picture, and this time they had it in detail, pegging the asteroid as a mile-long hazardous object coming at us at the very irresponsible speed of 17,000 mph.

I heard the first warning over the radio, and wasn’t overly concerned. A 30-year deadline for averting an attack by a rock seemed kind of generous to me, probably because I’m not an astronomer. But our little daughter took it to heart, providing me with a gripping account that night of the big asteroid threat.

It happened before, she gravely explained, millions of years ago, and made the dinosaurs go away. I am probably the closest thing to a dinosaur in her eyes, hence the warning. I calmed her fears by assuring her we’d shoot it down first, maybe with one of those bullet-spraying vehicles her little brother loves to draw.

Then wouldn’t you know it, before our little artist could pencil-in his first burst of artillery, the astronomers shot him down with an update. Instead of the asteroid passing within 30,000 miles of earth’s borders, the margin was widened to roughly 600,000 miles.